Last night I had a dream about a shark. I was standing by a river embankment. I was amazed to see a bear wading into the water chasing a fish. As I watched the bear strike out at his prey, I noticed something moving up the river. At first I thought it was the shadow of a low flying airplane. I squinted my eyes upward and saw nothing. I looked down and realized it was a shark swimming up stream like a giant out-of-place salmon. A shark. Through the clear stream, I could see his brownish grey armor forging a path toward the frolicking bear. I yelled to deaf ears and instinctively squatted to the ground, bracing myself as if I were watching a submarine in a collision course with an ocean liner. I watched the giant torpedo head rise up out of the water, its massive jaws engulfing the torso of its unsuspecting victim. I heard a muffled cry wrapped in a bloody coat of fur that lasted for only a moment as he resubmerged into the stream out of sight. Gone as quickly as he came. I stood in shock, my mouth open looking for a trace of evidence. Who would believe me?
I quickly sat up in bed. My sheets were wet from perspiration. I stood up and walked over to the window and reached over for a tobacco tube. Outside I could see the glowing neon lights alongside the corner guillotine. A small mob gathered around. It was a double execution: two guys at once, strapped in side by side with nothing to look at but the video terminals in front of their faces displaying their last minute will and testaments. The operator was entering in the instructions to drop the blade as the assistant secured the bodily fluid traps. I read the marquee above. The two had been in on it together. They apparently had the gall to copy a program and then try to sell it. Tisk, tisk.
Guillotines, guillotines, guillotines. Who would have ever thought they'd become popular again? Had to be, I suppose. I mean look what happened with the piracy problem. How the hell do you run a country when the chief source of revenue can be counterfeited by any slob in the privacy of his own home? Too much smarts, that's what the problem was. Not respectin' the other's hard work. Too much in the head and the head pops off in public. When you put something in your head that doesn't belong there...watch out. Worked for me, that's for sure. I never copied a single file I didn't pay decent credits for. Never will. Besides, blood bothers me, it's messy and expensive.
I remember well when the bioscientists discovered the real value of human blood. They isolated a compound in a healthy person's blood called "IMMUNO-5" which would, when injected into a sick person, restore immunity. It worked even in those whose immune systems were whacked out. Hell, it practically brought life back to the dead. Suddenly, not one goddamn person in the world donated blood anymore. The blood banks were mobbed and robbed overnight. Hell, who would give away something worth 50,000 credits an ounce? People started writing in the value of their blood into their wills. The blood in the average Joe Blow turned into cash could feed a family of four for two years...two years! Shit, science had made us into fuckin' walking, talking bank accounts. Every last one of us. At first, I kinda liked knowing I was worth something. Made me feel rich, like wearing a brand new synthetic suit. But, then I became paranoid at night. Sleeping in a room without a lock on the door was positively the shits.
Anemia became the disease of the day. Poor fucks everywhere selling a pint here, a pint there to pay the rent. All added up to lots of white faces everywhere chewin' on iron supplements till their kidneys and livers went.
It definitely took the "bloody" out of bloody murder. Sure, people were murdered. But now it was done so damn neatly. Strangulation was in, guns were out. Crimes of passion were replaced by dispassionate "blood letting." Hell, every corpse I ever saw since IMMUNO-5 came out was whiter than hospital clean sheets.
Of course the commodimization of the human body didn't stop with blood. PBFs-- Precious bodily fluids--spiraled up in value along with the value of most organs. Life turned out to be pretty fucking precious alright. Only problem was that we were a lot more valuable dead than alive. I knew more than one dude who traded in a kidney or a lung to stay out of the poorhouse for another year.
Thanks to the miracle of supply and demand flesh farms started popping up. First in Singapore, then they spread like a yeast infection all over the place. Bioengineered babes bought for spare parts. Illegal--technically illegal in every sector of the world. But, you know these organ salesmen. Desperate doctors in worn out hospitals knew which questions not to ask.
The market is a funny thing. People are always coming up with new ways to pay their bills. Poverty always proves to be productive when it comes to inventing new products. Like, the 3F contracts--FIDUCIARY FORFEITURE OF FREEDOM. A typical serf like me--I never did this by the way--could sign on with some lucky landowner or wealthy widow somewhere. To explain: a 3F is a contract of voluntary indentured servitude. Willing slavery on a contract, quite a big contract usually. Typically thirty or forty pages detailing exact duties. The more freedoms you give up, the more financial remuneration. Everything was spelled out: all forms of physical labor excluding the lifting of object weighing over 70 pounds. No more than five minutes of punishment per day excluding laceration. Naturally, punishment rights and sexual services were often amended into the contract increasing its value considerably. Like I said, the market is a funny thing.
What people won't do in the quest for "self-reliance." They used to like to call it "empowerment." What a joke that turned out to be. If you ask me, empowerment is a code word for a lack of support. You don't empower a baby chick by taking it away from its mother.
Anyway, today's another day. Another day to pull back over my skin. Another day to feel the luck, the INFOHIP luck that makes my day bearable. Just one inch more bearable than your average Joe ZERO-ZERO. I know I'm just along the edge of the pit. I'm a trapeze artist and I know it. That's what it means to be INFOHIP, I guess. You know you could topple over with the slightest miscalculated breeze, but THEY, they don't know it. To outsiders being INFOHIP is as secure as a Singaporian street: Orderly, cool, no mess, no complications.
I took a final suck on my tobacco tube as I looked up at the morning's billboards on my way out the door. Animated dragon kites crying out for attention I can't afford to give. My driver is waiting at the curb. His black leather suit looks recently pressed, shiny, seal-like, standing next to my great white shark of a car.
"Nothing left to chance," I say to myself as I note the day's agenda on my seat monitor. The office has my entire day mapped out for me starting with a meeting downtown at city hall. More political posturizing, no doubt.
As I walked into my office, I could see what a busy boy my terminal was last night. Lots of messages stacked up for me to read this morning. Too bad my head hurts so fuckin' much--too much chlorestrogen in my diet I guess. I asked the terminal for a bouillon cube summary of what's been going on. "Tell me what's gonna make me rich today, baby."
"Outbreak of excess spending located in the western quarter."
"Nail it down, please."
"Average mean spending on welfare allocations has risen 20% over the last two months."
"Your voice sounds different, are you eating testosties in the morning, or what?" You know I like your voice throaty, but feminine."
"I'm sorry Mr. Cooper, sir. Ahuummm. Better?"
"Much. Continue."
"Governmental payments for social security have risen 17% over the last two weeks, as well."
"Sector?"
"Small city in Northern California. The East Bay sector, sir. xOMA, California." "Call Sandoor and let him know we need to plan a meeting concerning XOMA. Make reservations for two rooms at the most expensive hotel you can find."
"For next week, Mr. Cooper?"
"Tuesday and Wednesday..."
"Tuesday, if you recall sir, you have a meeting scheduled with the director of Market Research."
"Right. Wednesday and Thursday, then."
"Consider it done, sir. May I ask you something, Mr. Cooper?"
"Yeah...sure."
"My voice. Does it please you now?"
"Yes."
"Thank you sir. When you're happy, I'm happy."
"Fine. Now get lost."
Christ, a neurotic terminal. I walked over to my window and looked out over the green wall of headquarters into the city. It was time for a business trip. Time to shake the trees a little and rustle up some bucks.
Today was LIGHTS and FIGHTS DAY at MACROHARD headquarters-- not my thing exactly. All the public auditoriums are turned into retro discos. Hyper strobe lights everywhere. A Techno Magical mystery tour playing full blast, and anybody who wants to can go inside and kick ass all day. It's a sadist holiday type thing. Part of Will's structured societal ritual program. Like I said, not my thing. I had enough fighting during the last war.
Besides, I was to meet Sandoor in a few minutes. What a guy. He had all the tact of a sexually transmitted disease. Always pissing people off with his bluntness. I used to tease him, telling him he must have learned his interpersonal communication skills by reading the Cliff Notes version of Machiavelli's THE PRINCE. Working with Sandoor was like shaving with a blunt razor: it's unpleasant but somehow always gets the job done.
It's hard to put my finger on his personality. I knew him from my minesweeping days. I had been a corporal in the army's mine sweeping unit, Sandoor was too. Young bucks, both of us. Should have been home breast feeding, but instead were stuck in the middle of the Mohave desert. We were given the same assignment one hell-hot afternoon, to sweep a one mile stretch of valley floor recently mined by a roaming band of confederates. Sandoor and I had to walk a half mile apart slowly through the valley's length. I can still see him in his armor standing a full two feet taller in his mining platform boots. Holding his wand sensor, he looked like one of King Arthur's knights.
We both walked one step at a time, our wand sensors extended ten feet in front of us; both marching like two advancing soldiers with bayonets extended slowly, slowly, slowly. My wand advances, feedback monitor in my helmet shines green, left foot lifts and steps down. Monitor still green, right foot lifts and steps down. Foot by foot, wand sweeping in a graceful semi-circle. Light turns red, helmet siren activates, foot freezes and retracts as I pinpoint the mine's electrical field. Mine located and mapped. And then, the part I could never get used to: retrieval. These mines were too damn expensive to blow up, so we had to dig 'em up, deactivate 'em, and bring 'em home. This worked out okay as long as you didn't step on one. Once you pinpointed the mine, you would dig a little hole around it with your hands and then reset the detonator with a digital magnetic eraser.
We looked like two starving beachcombers digging desperately in the beach for mussels. Once the mine was visible, I felt I knew what archaeologists must feel like when they uncover some ancient bone in the sand. I too, would lean over my discovery and slowly brush the sand away revealing more and more of my discovery to the light of day. I hated to touch the mines. I felt like I was sneaking up on a sleeping, diamondback rattle snake, trying to grab him by the back of the neck to strangle him before he could wake up. It was mainly a question of narrow focusing your attention span to the max.I had one blow on me once. Everything turns bright red. I guess it must be like getting hit by a car; it all happens so quick you don't feel anything until you wake up in the hospital. The armor protects you from the shrapnel, but every part of your body is bruised from the impact of your body slamming and vibrating inside the armor. A broken nose, a couple cracked ribs, and two weeks later you're back on the job.
Sandoor had an eruptive, bulimic way of speaking and walked with a "take no prisoners" stride. He looked like a typical INVESTOR with his short hair slicked back, starched shirt, and rep tie. Usually suspenders held up his neatly creased funeral dark blue pants. He kept his shoes shined daily. Part of the INVESTOR story line was all great civilizations started to decline after businessmen stopped keeping their shoes shined. Hence, every INVESTOR kept a shoe shine kit in his car. Sandoor shaved twice a day. His jaw had a wax shine giving him the appearance he never grew facial hair. He also changed his shirt and underwear twice a day. His eyes were too big and his ears had long hairs he refused to trim.
He had biological parents: his mother was Croatian and his father was a Serb. Sandoor had received the typical private sector education: mainly Cds emphasizing efficiency logarithms. He was a decent programmer; it was said he gained membership into the INVESTORS because he outwitted a programmer who falsified NATIONSTATE balance sheets by hiding food stamp costs. Sandoor publicly admired programmers with reputations for cheating the system. "All I ask is there be a level playing field," he would frequently say to those who questioned him. The INVESTORS liked to talk about "level playing fields."
The idea of the INVESTORS was thought up by Will one day while in the throes of one of his "the glories of the free-market wet dreams." The concept was simple: Create a franchise type operation whereby neophyte capitalists could earn credits by saving the government money. It was an easy sale to a population ravaged by government waste and inefficiency. A nation of glorious efficiency experts, so efficient they wouldn't even need a salary: they were paid three per- cent of whatever they could save the government.
It was a WIN-WIN situation, at first. Of course, no one seemed worried about thorny aspects of the plan--ethics, for example. "We won't ask what we don't need to know" was how Will responded when asked about how the INVESTORS go about deciding which projects they would take on.
The real story is Will unleashed a virtual feeding frenzy. For a country 88% Episcocapitilist, the INVESTOR program represented the keys to the kingdom. Would-be capitalists came out from the woodwork like flies on dead meat.
Sandoor was the best trader we had. He bought cheap and he sold dear. He would set his sites on a city with a high level of social expenditures and then proceed to murder those who depended on the state. He would stalk and kill indigents, blow up prisons, whatever was needed until the share price for that particular city would rise from the reduced costs. He would then sell his shares and move on. Sandoor felt patriotic. He thought he was helping the NATIONSTATES. To me, he was just a tool.
I looked down at my floor monitor. There he was waiting to come in to my office like a flea on a carpet hoping to find some warm body to hop onto.
"Good morning Sandoor. Come in, please."
"How are you Lane?" "Not bad, can't complain." I lied. "And you?"
"Just fine. Just made top grade for the third year in a row."
"Yeah. You're a celebrity around here now. How's it feel?"
"Non-toxic. Completely."
"Well I'll say it must."
"They gave me four 3F live-ins. Each with unlimited sex rights for the next two years."
"Wow, someone upstairs likes you." I can't imagine anyone living with this guy. I guess you could get used to him. The way you'd get used to living with only one lung or kidney.
"Well, we're all proud of you in investor relations. That's for sure."
"Thanks Lane. That means a lot coming from you." Sandoor always admired me in a big brother kind of way. Which is just the way I want to keep it. "Sandoor, we've got a new problem city. You know how it goes. Entitlement payments are way up; revenues stink. XOMA, You heard of it?" "XOMA...yeah sure. As I displayed the STATVIEW software, Sandoor's pupils dilated to the size of the pie charts appearing on the floor screen. Here is a man who loves his work. I leaned back in my chair and pulled a tobacco tube out of my right-hand drawer while watching the shadows of the charts and graphs dancing around Sandoor's shadow on the ceiling. Because the lights always dim automatically when the floor monitor turns on, Sandoor's face took on an eerie, diabolical look. "Excellent. There is little doubt this town is, well, shall we say...fiscally unfit." As he spoke he took out his famous chain mail linked, black leather gloves and put them on. He massaged his knuckles, undoubtedly anticipating the bruises he would soon be leaving on someone's state financed body. To Sandoor, a bruise, the outer confirmation of internal damage, was an adornment from nature. He admired bruises the way other people admire jewelry. Sandoor took the concept of PRO-SOCIAL CRUELTY to heart. That's probably why he was such a successful INVESTOR. He never let sympathy affect his investment choices because he never felt emotions like sympathy. When MACROHARD first developed the INVESTOR franchise concept, Sandoor was one of the first to apply. It was the perfect job for him. "Let me show you something," Sandoor said as he opened his briefcase. "My latest vacation getaway." The monitor in his briefcase showed off his latest home movie of him in his bathing suit walking up a sandy path to a three-story house along the beach. "Jamaica. Bought it last month after the New York job. Take a look inside." His home movie continued showing the tanned, sunglasses adorned Sandoor inside his place with three buxom, ninety-nine percent naked women. All were silhouetted by the view of the ocean from his living room window. "Look at these babes, I tell you Lane. Next month you gotta fly out with me." I always took Sandoor's bragging with a grain of salt. He was always trying to show-off his latest possessions. "Come to think of it, I could use a little vacation." I couldn't stop staring at his screen. "Damn right you could use one. You've been sitting behind a monitor too damn long. It's time you get yourself the hell out of the office. Listen," he whispered as he turned from side to side as if he didn't know MACROHARD records all conversations, "you need to come with me on the XOMA job. For...administrative reasons...to insure proper policy is executed. Afterwards we'll fly south to the Caribbean to spend the weekend at the beach house. What do you say?" "Hmmm, well I have been meaning to spend more time in the field. Of course...got to keep in touch with the latest trends in investment management. Yes, I'll go with you. I'll pack my bags and meet you at the airport. Say, five o'clock?" "Sounds good my man." Sandoor stood up abruptly and shook my hand. "You're gonna love it." Sandoor left and I walked over to the window. I stared out at the lawns below. Everything was on schedule, as usual. As one lawn mower was finishing mowing the last square yard of the small manicured plot below my window, another lawn mower began mowing from the opposite corner. Everywhere I looked there were two lawn mowers on every patch of green, guaranteeing the grass was always a standardized one centimeter in length, never more, never less.